You made a sign against the sky
who did it who sent the sun
tumbling to the center of the sun
who piled up miles against the gates
We fly too, but opposite
all life’s woods a blur on stone
suplexed by the intercontinental absolute,
a shimmering parenthesis
held open by the drunken
holiday of idiot compatriots
whose dim exchanges our party
computes in cortisol and petty crime.
The dark is molar. That’s the first moral.
There are fires on the floor of the sea.
That’s I don’t know what. Some poet’s wound.
It rains cement, rains structure
we bash into a muted blind, a fuzzy
cuff, drifting into the iceless Arctic
rising now at sentence end.
A question belongs here
but you can’t say which.
Vines tangle the oarlocks,
ladders of vines tumble
down the pumice cliffs.
Nothing ruined you for this world
like the world upside down and inside out,
its coiled veins of cold, annulling sweetness.
Your heights, those speeding graves, our meanest green.
No posts